


Super-dark McShep fic

by kisahawklin



Series: Unfinished and discontinued fic [12]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kisahawklin/pseuds/kisahawklin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex rituals and hallucinations and not!death oh my. This is dark!John, not for the faint of heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Super-dark McShep fic

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for sian1359 for SGA_santa ages ago - 2009, maybe? I've toyed with it here and there over the years, but I just need to let this go now.

John kneels on the strange wooden contraption. He's getting too old for kneeling and his knees crack loudly as he goes down. His four escorts tie him down, his ankles tied to the wood frame of the kneeling device, and his hands elaborately tied to the posts on either side. There seems to be some sort of inherent trust issue in Pegasus (despite the extremely casual sex) – they've all been tied down enough to be masters at the art of bondage.

The rest of his team comes out on to what he can't think of as anything but a stage – even if the [alien]s call it an altar. It's stone, hand cut, with nine stairs to the top, which is maybe ten by fifteen feet. They're wearing robes, blue and red and green, with a thick silver piping along the edges, which, John can't help but notice, don't quite meet, and aren't held together by any fastenings.

He cringes; if they had known this was going to be a sex ceremony, he would have let Rodney be the "witness" and participated himself. Checking over his team, Ronon and Teyla both look calm and collected. Rodney looks harassed within an inch of his life, which is probably true. He hates the preparation for the sex rituals more than he hates the sex.

The first time had been a real surprise, at least for everyone but Teyla. She explained that it was a custom among many of the peoples of the Pegasus galaxy, and one of the anthropologists had told John later that it made perfect sense, since the gene pool wasn't viable otherwise. It explained a lot about how the smaller cultures didn't completely die out. Ronon wasn't surprised by it either, when he joined the team, and neither of them seemed to have any problem – it was the same as a handshake to them.

The first time, Teyla had talked their hosts out of it and never told John how, though he's always suspected she said they had some sort of contagious disease. At the next team meeting Teyla explained a typical ritual and warned them that they should expect such welcomes often. His own count puts it at about sixty percent, but he doesn't sweat it much. He's okay with casual sex. He feels a little bad about defeating the purpose of the whole thing with condoms, but space VD is not an option, and neither are mini-Sheppards running around the Pegasus galaxy.

After Teyla enlightened him about the whole sex-as-hello phenomenon, he went back to old SGC team reports, and it became obvious that it wasn't just Pegasus. The sex was never talked about explicitly, but it was there, and it either made the team thick as thieves or drove a wedge between them. Rodney had begged to be taken off the team after the first time, and he'd had to do some fancy footwork to keep Rodney with them. They coddled him, and though Rodney never talked about why, John always thought it was his romantic view of sex. As he trusted the team more, Rodney became more resigned to the rituals, though he was never enthusiastic about them. If they could spare someone, it was always Rodney.

John looks up at the stage, and something tickles the back of his mind. These sex rituals are rigidly heterosexual, though with at least half of the cultures, there's a free-for-all at the banquet or feast or whatever they called their post-ritual food orgy afterward. Today there are only men on stage and John snaps back to himself, scouting the rest of the crowd, the altar, the town around them, and the path to the gate. He's gotten too trusting, he can't believe he let his guard down like that. He can see Teyla talking to her escorts, and Ronon shrugging, shifting the robe so John can see a stripe of skin, proving he's naked underneath, head to foot. Rodney's arguing too, starting to go red in the face, and damn it, John should have known better. The most vulnerable member of the team should always be the witness. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

He's tied down too thoroughly to move, but he strains forward to try and hear what his team is arguing about. Suddenly one of Ronon's escorts pulls out a huge knife – a short sword, really – and John can feel the adrenaline rush through his system and carve out a blank space where his viscera should be. The knife is out of Ronon's eyeline, and before John can yell or Teyla and Rodney can even turn to look, the [alien] brings the blade down in a swift arc, a solid stab Ronon's gut, burying the knife in Ronon's abdomen at least six inches deep.

John can feel himself shouting, threats coming out of his mouth as easy as breathing. Ronon's down, in a way that can't be from just the stab wound, and one of his escorts kicks him off the altar. John's throat is on fire, yelling for his team.

"I'm going to kill you fuckers," John says to the guys standing on either side of him. "I'm going to kill every fucking one of you." His guards laugh.

Rodney loses his color, the blush draining from him as quickly as it came up. Ronon's body falls down the steps and lands a few feet from John, on his right. Rodney and Teyla both start talking, moving closer to each other, and John starts shouting again. He's hollow, no blood or bone or muscle, only rage, the hot flames of it licking his skin from the inside out.

One of Teyla's guards pulls out another knife, dull brown like the one they used on Ronon, and slightly shiny, like it's wet. Teyla ducks, pulling one of her captors down with her, and Rodney kicks out a leg, catching the knee of the guy with the knife.

A third knife is out now, and John yells again. "Rodney, duck!"

Rodney's never been great with orders and he turns to look at John instead of doing what John says. When the blade enters his gut, his eyes go round with surprise and then betrayal, which John can feel down to his bones. Rodney slumps almost immediately, and falls down the steps without even being touched by the [alien]s, landing on his stomach on John's left side.

Teyla's still fighting for her life, twisting and kicking and taking out at least some of the men on the altar. Still, there's nine of them and only one Teyla, and when they finally get ahold of her enough to keep her still, her robe is wide open, her beautiful smooth skin providing an easy target for the one with the knife. She goes limp after the first strike, proving to John that the blades were poisoned in some way, and he realizes he's screamed himself hoarse somewhere in the middle of this clusterfuck.

Her body is thrown down the steps, and she lands face up right in front of him, eyes open and glassy.

"Teyla," he whispers, hoping against hope that they're only incapacitated and not dead. She doesn't move, and he watches them carefully, looking for any sign of their chests rising and falling. Nothing. His team is dead at his feet and he can't even close their eyes or cover up their bodies. His guards laugh at him again.

The high priest-whatever-bullshit [alien] is intoning something to the gathered crowd, all of them looking up at him worshipfully.

John can feel something wet on the skin of his arms and looks down to see blood seeping through the ropes where he's rubbed himself raw trying to get loose. He keeps struggling, the searing pain of his skin being peeled off keeping him focused on getting out of here and then killing every single person on this fucking Deliverance planet.

The priest stops talking and all eyes shift to John. He struggles twice as hard, sure he can feel the rope on his left hand loosening. The priest gives an order to his guards and John braces for a knife to the gut. He gets a blow to the head instead, and the last thing he sees as he pitches forward is Teyla's empty eyes staring up at him.

~~~*~~~

John remembers before he's fully conscious, the images of his team, broken and still on the ground, flaring in the darkness behind his closed eyes. He checks himself over by feel, noting bandages on his ripped up forearms and bare feet. He's fully clothed otherwise, and he curses his captors for being smart enough to take his boots.

He opens his eyes and looks around his cell. It's nice; more room-like than a cell, but he doesn't kid himself he's anything but a prisoner, especially considering the fact that his wrists and ankles are tied to the bed frame.

He jerks his hands up hard, biceps screaming with the effort. It pays off – there's a loud crack in the deathly still room, and suddenly he can wiggle his left arm. He worries the rope a bit, trying to determine if there's a sharp edge he can cut the rope on. It doesn't feel like it, but whatever he cracked feels a little springy, so he pulls his wrist up sharply, over and over until it comes free, along with a piece of wood from the frame of the bed.

"Ha!" he shouts, regretting the outburst as soon as it's out of his mouth. He listens intently for footsteps approaching, but doesn't hear any, so he rolls over as far as his restraints allow and starts working on the knot for his other hand.

There's a knock on the door – when did murderers get so polite? – and John lies back down, inching the bit of wood that flew off the frame up into his hand as he cranes his neck to look at the door.

"Colonel Sheppard," the high priest – Bol, he remembers abruptly – says as he enters. "You're looking better."

John laughs, high-pitched and bordering on hysteria. He can feel the rage still boiling in his gut, but cold, like liquid nitrogen exposed to air.

"Or perhaps not," Bol says, stepping up to the bed. Not quite within range, so John plays along, trying to remember what he needs to do to come off as charming and non-threatening.

"Fit as a fiddle," he says, gripping the wooden shank in his left hand. _Come closer, you asshole_ , he thinks, _just one more step._

"Oh, good," Bol says, seeming delighted. "We very much need your help in fixing our shield, and–"

John can feel the laughter coming again, bubbling out of him involuntarily. He grins maniacally as Bol takes the all-important step closer. "Too bad you killed the guy who could actually do it," he says, swinging his arm with all his might and stabbing Bol with the shank. He aims just below the ribcage, doing his best to twist the bit of wood up into a lung so Bol can't call for help.

Bol gurgles and falls on top of John, breathing out a fine mist of bright red blood and proving John's aim was true. John shoves him off, leaning over and using his free arm to yank on his tied one, desperation making the adrenaline surge in his system. It's a welcome distance from the black hole of his anger, banking the fires enough to be able to think.

He unties his legs easily – clearly they hadn't expected him to get his hands free – and looks around the room, hoping for his boots. No luck, but he doesn't waste time mourning them, he just puts on Bol's goatskin slipper-shoes and kicks Bol's hand away when he reaches for John. Slipper-shod feet are no good for kicking, not like John wants to, not hard enough to bash Bol's head in and spill his blood on the floor so John can replace the image of the slow spread of crimson under his teams' bodies on the cobblestones of the town square. He settles for putting a little pressure on Bol's ribcage, and watches him gasp for air for just a second before getting out of this hellhole. He's going to burn it to the ground, but he wants to watch someone's _face_ , when he gets his revenge and Bol's the only chance he's going to get.

Bol's eyes flutter shut and John kicks him in the side, a spurt of rage that settles his thoughts, and he goes to the door, listening for anyone else coming down the hallway. There's no sound, and he slips out, the leather shoes making him as quiet as Ronon – oh god, _Ronon_ – as he makes his way out of the building. He doesn't run into anyone on the way out (only two doors and a hallway from his room) and the whole building is eerily quiet, like they're keeping vigil.

John checks his pockets as he makes his way out of town in the shadows of the alleyways. They took his tac vest back when it was supposed to be a friendly sex ritual, but they hadn't thought to check his BDUs, and he always keeps the jumper remote on him, just in case.

As soon as the remote is in hand, he can feel the jumper calling to him, less than a quarter mile outside the town's outer wall. The friendly hum makes him even madder, the calm of the jumper a clear contrast to the seething emotions just barely kept in check by the need to get his revenge, utter annihilation of the monsters that would take away his family and leave him to live without them.

He's got a full complement of twelve drones and that's more than enough to destroy the town of twenty thousand. His mind draws an attack plan, maximizing each payload automatically. He knows how to systematically destroy the village with nine drones by the time he hits the button for the back hatch of the jumper, and the HUD comes up as soon as he sets foot on the ramp.

He closes it up and sits down, taking one shaky breath as he remembers his team sitting in the cockpit less than a day ago, alive and well, teasing Teyla about her terrible cooking. By the time he sighs the breath back out, the HUD is blinking with the attack points he's calculated. There are two red blips onscreen – Rodney and Teyla's locator beacons – and he swallows hard at the memory of trying to convince Ronon to let them implant him with something for his own safety and failing miserably. He'd meant to try again, now that Ronon's nightmares about running seemed to have lessened, but John hadn't gotten around to it. Always waiting for the perfect moment.

He takes a deep breath and lifts the jumper, easily clearing the defensive wall. He steers it over to the town square, wanting to see as much of the destruction as he possibly can. The door to the town hall building opens and Bol's wife appears, covered in blood. _Good_ , he thinks meanly, sending the first drone at the building behind her, the one with his teams' bodies in it, and she gets knocked down in a shower of debris. The building lists to the side, falling into the granary next to it, and John watches Rodney and Teyla's beacons slide sideways across his screen, following the path of the falling debris.

 _"Colonel, stand down."_ There's urgency in Lorne's words, and John has never been happier to hear his second in command's voice.

"Major," John says smoothly, genuinely glad for Lorne's presence, even if it costs him in the court martial later. "Just in time for the show."

He fires his second drone and Lorne squawks something unintelligible over the line before doing something John didn't know was possible – shooting a drone down with another drone. Lorne's drone overtakes his and smashes into it, a stream of plasma or energy or whatever the hell is in those things dripping like lava from the impact.

 _"Sir,"_ Lorne says, his voice tight, _"your team is in there. Can't you see their transmitters?"_

"Yeah," John says, trying to figure out the best way to beat Lorne on the draw. John may be a better pilot, but Lorne's always had better control of the drones. "They deserve to go out like warriors," John says, hoping he can get through to Lorne. "And the fuckers that killed them are all going to die. Every one."

_"Don't make me shoot you down, sir."_

John sighs and releases the drone, hoping that Lorne will at least do him the service of killing him.

Watching the ground come up to meet him in slow motion, John knows he's not going to be that lucky.

~~~*~~~

"...infection is the thing to worry about now," Carson is saying, and John's pretty sure Carson's not talking about him, but he can't be positive. He feels floaty, and it takes him a full minute after opening his eyes to remember that the reason his team isn't there is because they're all _dead_. 

He tries to lift his hand to wave at Carson, but he's in medical restraints – his arms attached to the sides of the gurney. The clinking of the restraints catches Carson's attention and he wanders over with a smile on his face.

"Colonel?" Carson asks. "Oh, wonderful, I'm glad to see you awake."

Carson's cheerfulness makes him nauseous. If he had his hands free, he probably would have throttled the good doctor.

"Feeling any better?" Carson checks over the bandages on his arms – clean white cotton, not the beige linen of M24-982 – and checks the bags attached to his IV. Only two; John must have gotten off light from the jumper crash. A cursory check reveals an achy ankle and the almost-familiar rope burns on his arms. 

John shrugs, looking around the confines of his privacy curtain.

"Yes, well, you'll be feeling the aftereffects for some time, I believe," Carson says, and John rolls his eyes while he waits for Carson to finish his poking and prodding. Carson surprises him, clicking on his radio and saying, "Dr. Weir, Colonel Sheppard is awake."

He hadn't expected an official reprimand quite so soon after gaining consciousness, but there's nothing to do but lie back and wait. It takes roughly forever for Elizabeth to make her way to the infirmary, and by the time she strolls up to his bedside – smiling, for god's sake – he's ready to cause a scene just to be put under again.

"John," Elizabeth says, in her warmest tone of voice. "How are you feeling?"

John looks at her, not even making the effort to raise his eyebrows, because that has got to be the dumbest question he's ever heard. Now he knows how Rodney must feel _all the time_. How Rodney _felt_ , he reminds himself, how he would have felt if he was in John's shoes right now, where he should be, John thinks, if John had just –

"John," Elizabeth says again, and he realizes he's tuned her out to stare just over Carson's shoulder. "Why don't you tell me what happened back there," she says, pulling up a stool.

John's not sure he can do it, give a full account of every single second that's etched in his brain in a never-ending high-def loop. He swallows, a loud sound in the oddly quiet room. "We took the jumper through the gate to M24-982, landed it just outside the town's defensive wall, and were greeted by Curate Bol and his wife Hedi. They brought us to the town hall where we were served tea and told about the greeting ceremony. The greeting ceremony where they killed my team one by one–" John chokes, clenching his fists tight against the blank look on Elizabeth's face. He takes a deep breath and continues. "I was knocked unconscious, and escaped when I came to. I tried to destroy the city but before I could manage it, Lorne shot me down."

Elizabeth eyes are sad, and her mouth is set in a solemn line – _that's_ what he'd expected when she first walked in.

"Colonel, your team is alive."

The rush of hope that sweeps in is as unsettling as the rage from the day before; he can't believe it, he _won't_ believe it, not until he sees them. "Where are they?" he asks, knowing something must be wrong if they're not at his bedside. "Elizabeth," he asks, looking up at her, "where is my team?"

"They're just on the other side of this curtain," Carson says, almost _cheerfully_ and for a second John thinks maybe they are just waiting for him, sitting on the uncomfortable chairs and pretending to play gin rummy. Then he sees Elizabeth's face, the quick glance of annoyance she shoots Carson and the sympathetic eyes she turns back on him, and his stomach drops.

"The tea was hallucinogenic for those with the Ancient gene," Elizabeth's explaining, but John is yanking on the restraints and looking at Carson, begging to be let up. Don't they understand he needs to see his team?

"Just wait, Colonel," Elizabeth says, and John goes deathly still. His mind races ahead of her as his Lorne's desperate plea replays in his mind.

_Your team is in there. Can't you see their transmitters?_

All the air leaves his lungs in a rush and he feels empty and fragile, like a [FIND A REALLY GOOD METAPHOR HERE BECAUSE EMPTY CREAM PUFF ISN"T GOING TO WORK - NOR IS PORCELAIN DOLL. >:( ] He'd levelled a building on top of his team. He'd shot live drones at the only three people in the universe he calls family anymore.

John only has time to turn his head to the side before he throws up violently all over the bed, bile staining the sheets neon yellow. "I need to see them," he whispers, his throat sore.

Elizabeth stands up and shoves the stool out of the way, nodding to Carson. They release him from the restraints and Elizabeth pushes his IV stand as Carson guides him out of his privacy curtain and into the rest of the infirmary.

Teyla's on her stomach, breathing evenly in sleep. Her hair is cropped short, except for a small part at the nape of her neck where it's been burned off, leading down into a jagged section of skin that's red and blistered along her neck and shoulder blade.

Ronon's on his back, snoring away, and the only thing looking the worse for wear on him are his hands, wrapped up in huge white gauze mittens, twice the size of boxing gloves. Just looking at pair of them, John feels his chest expand back to its normal size, and he can finally take a real breath for the first time since he set foot on that god-forsaken planet.

He doesn't see Rodney in the main area, but there's a privacy curtain closed on the other end of the infirmary, and John pulls away from Carson to limp over to it. He stops with his hand on the curtain, the overwhelming sense of relief and anguish and fear freezing him in his tracks. Carson doesn't seem to notice and pulls the curtain back, patting John on the arm before passing him his IV stand and steering Elizabeth away.

Rodney's facing away from John, lying on his left side and curled up loosely. John feels his stomach drop through the floor when he realizes the giant sheet of white covering Rodney's right side isn't actually a blanket, but a bandage. John steps up to the bed, trying to figure out how extensive the damage is. He stares at Rodney, watching the slow, even rise and fall of his chest until he's unsteady on his feet – no broken bones, but he did a number on his ankle. He pats Rodney's calf before he turns away, the solidness of Rodney under his hand doing a lot to assuage the surreal feeling that's set in.

"Burns?" John asks, as he approaches Carson's desk. Carson nods, and Elizabeth avoids his eyes, looking down at her hands. "How bad?"

"Rodney got the worst of it," Carson says, like John couldn't tell that just by looking at them all. "We had to graft skin onto most of his right arm and torso."

 _Infection is the thing to worry about now,_ John thinks, and the nausea returns with a vengeance.

"Teyla and Ronon will probably leave the infirmary in a few more days, and it'll take them a month to heal completely. Rodney should be right as rain in about two months. The skin we grafted was his own, there is an Ancient device –"

John sways, the sudden gut-clenching nausea making him stumble a little. It's enough to unbalance him, and he falls over, falls through Elizabeth's and Carson's hands trying to catch him and lands hard on his hip. He rests his cheek on the floor, cool and soothing against his feverish skin. "I did that to him," John mutters.

"You were hallucinating," Carson says, patting John's back soothingly. "You couldn't have known."

"What happened?"

No one answers him, and when he opens his eyes and looks up at Carson and Elizabeth, they're staring at each other intently enough that he knows neither one wants to tell him.

"I shot out the foundation of the building with a drone," John starts, "and then…?"

Elizabeth sighs deeply and starts to pace. "The ceiling caved in on them. Teyla tried to push Rodney out of the way of a falling crossbeam but only succeeded in getting trapped under the burning debris with him." She chuckles once, a low, unhappy sound. "She did cover Rodney's hands, though, so they weren't burned. Lucky."

John retches, down to dry heaves, since even the bile is gone from his stomach now. Carson's hand on his back gets firmer, real pressure on his spine.

"Ronon lifted the burning timbers up so they could climb out from underneath it."

John closes his eyes and puts his head back on the floor. _Fuck_.

~~~*~~~

"Sir," Lorne says, handing over a tablet. "You've got three days' worth of paperwork to sign and the requisitions to look over." He looks around, eyes darting automatically from Marie to Carson and back. "And there's minesweeper and solitaire. Sorry we couldn’t get anything better."

John huffs out a half-hearted laugh. It's only been two hours since he woke up but it's enough to push his panic button, because Ronon's starting to thrash, and Teyla keeps unconsciously trying to roll over and then groggily flopping back onto her stomach.

"I need to get out of here, Lorne," John says desperately. "You've got to spring me."

"No go, Colonel," Lorne says, tipping his head toward Carson. "Even if I could get you medically cleared, you'd have to go to Dr. Heightmeyer for psych eval."

"That's fine," John says, and he knows he gave away too much as he watches Lorne's eyebrows go up and up and up. "No really, I need to move around. I can hobble around Heightmeyer's office."

Lorne studies him for a while and then nods. "I'll see what I can do."

~~~*~~~

Lorne accompanies him back to his quarters and stations himself outside. Carson's orders, John knows, and it makes him feel even guiltier, though he's already made up his mind.

He takes a long shower, standing under the warm water and practicing every trick he ever learned from Teyla or in the Sanctuary to scrub the images of his team being killed out of his mind. It doesn't work, and it takes blood swirling down the drain from rubbing the raw skin on his forearms before he realizes he's trying to scrub himself clean from the outside in. He spent a long time after Holland died coming out of the shower with skin rubbed raw.

He leaves the shower run as he towels off and gets dressed, going for jeans and his zip-up black hoodie. It isn't exactly native, but it's better than his uniform, not that he has a clean one anyway.

He finally turns off the shower after grabbing the Wraith stunner he keeps in his underwear drawer. When he gets back to Atlantis, he's going to have to do a search of people's quarters. He has a stunner because he wanted to be able to protect himself if Atlantis makes people crazy (and he figures he's not alone in that), but he really never wants to be on the receiving end of what he has to do next.

 _"Sir?"_ Lorne calls from the other side of the door. _"Dr. Heightmeyer is expecting you."_

"Right," John says loudly enough for Lorne to hear him, "sorry."

He palms the crystals and as soon as the door opens, he shoots Lorne with the stunner. Lorne falls gracelessly forward, and John catches him and lowers him carefully to the ground. "I really am sorry, Major," he says, yanking Lorne's body all the way into his room and removing his radio. He shuts down communications to and from his room and pulls the crystals from the door after he locks Lorne in. "Really, really sorry."

~~~*~~~

John hurries to the jumper bay, praying that it's empty and he won't need to stun anyone else. He half-hops, half-runs, favoring his sprained ankle every second or third step depending on how bad the stabbing pains are.

No one is in sight, thankfully, and John slows his pace as he hobbles over to jumper four. Rodney is going to kill him, because he rigged the jumper specifically to override the home DHD for any stargate – though John's pretty sure he never imagined it would be used against Atlantis. It had been a tremendous help on more than one occasion, starting with M3X-577, where Rodney had originally rigged the mini-DHD in the jumper so the Darnens couldn't prevent them from dialing out (it had taken four of the longest thirty-eight minute wormhole windows John had ever lived through).

As he rounds the corner to open the hatch for jumper four, a startled Zelenka looks up from his place at the side of jumper nine. "You scared me, Colonel." He goes back to working on his crystals, but John can see the moment the realization hits. "Should you be out of –"

John catches Zelenka too, and lays him out next to the jumper. It's probably for the best. Zelenka might have known a way to keep John from going, and that would ruin everything.

He climbs into the jumper and dials, letting the autoprogram take him into the gate room and through the gate.

~~~*~~~

John parks the jumper close to the town wall; he doesn't know what kind of reception he's going to get, but he wants to be ready if he needs to run.

No one seems to notice as he enters through the west gate. There aren't many people around, just a few striding purposefully to whatever their next destination is; no one to greet him like Curate Bol did when the team first arrived.

There's a pyre in the courtyard square. He can't tell if there are any bodies on top of it, but it's not like he really wants to see them anyway. The nausea comes back, a hard, sideways hook in his stomach and he wonders if he'll just be nauseous forever. 

"Colonel Sheppard."

He turns at the soft voice and sees Hedi, Bol's wife. "We were not expecting you."

That's the understatement of all time. The guilt is overwhelming, an oppressive weight on his shoulders. He'd thought coming back here would give him a way to apologize, to try and make amends; instead it's just a reminder of the awful things he's done that he can't ever take back or make right.

"I am so sorry," he rasps out, the words nearly crumbling in his parched throat. "I know I've –"

"There is no need to be sorry, Colonel," Hedi says, but there are tears in her eyes. "You were not yourself. It was not done purposefully."

John doesn't even know how to explain how wrong she is. He was so angry, so full of rage... even if the cause of the rage wasn't real, the rage itself was, and his actions are wholly his fault.

"Colonel!"

John whirls around at the sound of Miller's voice and comes face to face with the stunner he has pointed at John's chest.

"Lieutenant," John says calmly, putting his hands up. "What's up?"

"Sir, my orders are to bring you back to Atlantis." The rest of Miller's team is behind him with their stunners pointed at the ground, and Dr. Simpson is standing even further back, unarmed, looking uncomfortable. "Dr. Weir was concerned you'd come back to..." he flicks his eyes to Hedi over John's shoulder, "...finish what you started."

John clenches his muscles against the short shudder that goes up his spine. "No, Lieutenant, I came to apologize and offer to make amends."

"That's very nice, sir, but Dr. Weir would like you back in Atlantis, and I'm just following orders."

"And if I won't go?" John asks. "I'm pretty sure she told you to bring me back unharmed."

"But not necessarily conscious," Miller says, indicating the stunner. "Sir, if you would please come with us, I'm sure you can come back after you've had your psych eval."

John's pretty sure he's not going back to Atlantis, not while he's conscious, anyway, and he turns up his adolescent charm to eleven. "Dr. Heightmeyer can come here," he says, tacking on his most disarming smile. Simpson smiles back at him, so that's a good sign. "At least ask Elizabeth," he adds, hoping the familiarity of Elizabeth's first name will remind Miller who is higher up on the food chain.

Miller glances back at his team, and they shrug at him. "I'd rather not have to carry him back to the jumper," Sergeant Arking says. "Can't hurt to ask."

John smiles at Arking. Good man. "Right," he says. "Can't hurt to ask."

John takes Hedi's hand between his and lets her know he will return, but that he doesn't want to make AR-3 stand around in the town square while funeral preparations are being made. He tells her he'll be back for the ritual and then to help with clearing the mess he made. She kisses his knuckles and smiles wetly at him, telling him he is always welcome.

~~~*~~~

They can talk to Elizabeth from the jumper, so it only takes moments to get her approval of John's request. John lets out the breath he was holding; he hadn't been sure about her agreement, but he had hoped. She's smart enough to know he wouldn't take such drastic measures if he wasn't willing to pay the ultimate price – he's just glad she's willing to give him the slack he needs to be able to work through this on his own.

They settle in and wait for Dr. Heightmeyer to come through the gate, John dealing five card draw, because it's the only poker game he's good enough to cheat at.

~~~*~~~

"I need to do something to make up for all the damage I caused," John says, figuring a certain amount of honesty with Heightmeyer will get her on his side without having to admit anything, even to himself.

"You know you're not responsible –"

"Don't give me that bullshit. You of all people," John says, looking up from the pile of rubble he's helping to shift away from the granary. "You should know better. I did this; the least I can do is try to clean up some of my mess."

"Fine," she says, looking down at the loose stones. She looks like she wants to help. "I appreciate that you feel responsible for your actions. But responsibility and guilt are two different things."

John holds his silence. He knows they're different, knows the feel of each of them intimately. Responsibility is a weight, a burden sometimes, stifling sometimes, but not oppressive. Guilt is a different kind of weight entirely. It's a ball and chain pulling you down into the depths of the ocean.

"It's not that I want to keep you from doing what you can here," Heightmeyer says, standing and wiping her hands on her BDUs before picking up some of the smaller pieces of rubble. "I just don't want you to run away from doing what you can in Atlantis."

"I'm not running away," John says, wondering why he even bothered with the lie when she tilts her head at him knowingly. "I need to start here," he amends, hoping she can understand. He can't face his team, not yet. Cleaning up this mess is something concrete he can do, put his hands to work and see the results as they rebuild. 

"And what if you have another reaction?" Heightmeyer asks. "Have you thought about that?"

John stares at her, the idea that he might ever do something so vengeful again making his stomach give a dangerous lurch. "I'll be careful," he says. "I can live on MREs for a few weeks. Hell, Rodney's done it for months."

"That's not what I mean, and you're avoiding the question." She chucks a chunk of rock into the wheelbarrow-like contraption. "Where did all that rage come from, John?"

He doesn't even know how to explain to her what it felt like, his team staring up at him with dead eyes, the only family that mattered in his world gone, and so senselessly. He can feel the bone-breaking sorrow still, the overwhelming loneliness. He keeps it inside, knowing she can't understand except in a clinical, detached way, and even trying to put words to it would be a betrayal of what it meant. He shakes his head. He's not ready to talk about that, not now and quite possibly not ever. Not with her. He doesn't owe her the explanation anyway.

"I'll be coming by every couple days," she says, squatting so she can get herself in his eyeline. He meets her eyes. It's not that he doesn't trust her, though he thinks she knows that already. "And you'll need someone here with you at all times."

John nods. He already knew he was going to accept whatever restrictions she placed on him as long as he could stay.

"I'd like you to come back to Atlantis sooner rather than later," she says, adding, "just to check in."

That's the one thing he can't promise, not so soon, but he nods his head anyway, like it's a simple request, something he can do easily. It doesn't fool her; her face showing her mild disbelief. 

"Okay," she says. "Okay, John."

~~~*~~~

Kate and SG-3 leave without any fanfare, and Dr. Jia is sent back with a pack full of John's things to keep an eye on him under the guise of studying [alien] funerary practices. Mostly she talks to people in John's vicinity and carries her notebook everywhere. She's nice, and people-smart enough to keep a polite distance from John and be sympathetic to the townspeople as she pumps them for information.

John's never really been one for hard labor, a trait he has always shared with his father. He's accustomed himself to it, but it's not a natural state of being. It feels fitting to work himself to exhaustion every day, the sweat stinging his eyes and soaking his shirt. He cleans most of the rubble of the Curate's home alone. Hedi brings him food occasionally, things he knows he can eat without a reaction, and there's a bunch of kids that hang around the edges of the rubble pile until townsfolk come and pull them away. He wants to tell the kids he's not that interesting anyway, but he finds silence suits him these days.

Four days after John returns to [Planet], they light the huge pyre in the town square just as dusk is deepening into night. Hedi chants an invocation and the crowd chants back at her. After a few verses, John's comfortable enough to join in the call and response. He does it under his breath, feeling the pitches in the back of his throat and keeping the syllables behind his lips.

After fifteen minutes of call and response, the drums start. Hedi, along with several men and women John vaguely recognizes, move around the pyre, walking slowly at first, then swaying, skirts in hand, and finally outright twirling, her skirts stretched out to their full length.

It looks joyful.

The first pass around the pyre is done by Hedi and the others (family, John guesses, though he'd have to confirm with Dr. Jia to be sure), and slowly people join in, until John is the only person standing still in a sea of swirling colors.

It feels wrong. Funerals have always been solemn, quiet affairs, soft tones and low grumblings of sympathy and sadness. He doesn't know what to do with this, it feels like they're trying to take away some deep, needful part of him, and he clings to the guilt he feels as the flames tower over him, consuming the man he killed. An innocent, someone he was supposed to help.

John feels a tug on his hands and looks down, seeing Dr. Jia in her bright purple toga-dress. She'd bought it at the market her second day here, and she looks radiant. "You're supposed to dance," she says, swinging their arms back and forth a little. John doesn't think he will ever dance again, and he certainly can't celebrate in the courtyard where he turned into a monster.

Dr. Jia looks at him, a sad smile making her look older than her twenty-something years. "If you can't share in the joy, you shouldn't be here," she says gently, tugging on his arm and guiding him through the sea of whirling skirts. She stops abruptly when they're less than halfway out of the crowd and does a complicated twisty bow. When she steps aside, he sees Hedi and he can feel the crack of guilt when she smiles at him with wet eyes. It's like a rainstorm while the sun is shining. 

"Come, [endearment], dance with me."

John can't deny her, so he takes her hand and follows her back into the throng, Dr. Jia chasing behind them with a wide smile.

~~~*~~~

The next day is back to the rubble pile, which John has cleared away roughly half of in his five day stint. It's hard, miserable work, and he's exhausted, muscles perfectly sore as he drops into a dreamless sleep the second his head hits the cot.

He tries to talk to Hedi over breakfast, but his defensive veneer of charm has been stripped away. He's lost the simple ability to talk to people, to be interested in them, to be interested in anything that's outside his own head.

She smiles at him, responds to his stuttered niceties with easy answers. She asks how he is sleeping; he answers truthfully. "Like –" _the dead_ "– a rock."

"I am glad," she says, wrapping her fingers around his hand, tucking the tips in his palm to give it a squeeze.

~~~*~~~

As the week wears on, Hedi starts to pull him away from work earlier, before he is bone weary, asking if he would like to see their library or bathhouse or temple to [deity]. They walk around the city and she explains the history of the buildings and the people and the religion.

"We strive for joy," Hedi says, her hand wrapped firmly around his arm. "In everything."

"That's a good thing to strive for," John says, covering her hand with his. He's never really felt joyous outside of flying, except with his team. Now he can't think of them without the black hole in the pit of his stomach, all the joy turned sour and poisonous. 

"We understand your sorrow," she says carefully, but he knows that's not true. Hedi could never have done the kind of thing he did, and so easily, without a single [qualm]. "But you must come through it, John. It is not healthy."

If John had been listening, the way he used to be able to listen, before the ocean of his thoughts had become too loud, he might have been able to hear what she didn't say. _Our children are asking about you._

Instead he just nods, ignoring her tightened lips and pitying eyes.

~~~*~~~

"Did you know," Dr. Jia says breathlessly as she accompanies him to the market the next day, "that widows are expected to take lovers within days of their spouse's death?" She smiles, like this idea is somehow pleasing to her. "Nothing permanent. Just someone whose job it is to give them sexual pleasure while they adjust to being without their loved one."

John can't even grasp the concept; who would even want to have sex after their husband or wife died? 

"Most of the townfolk assume you are Hedi's lover," she adds, faking nonchalance very poorly.

John's not surprised, though he feels guilty – and he's a little surprised he can even feel more guilt heaped on top of what he's been carrying around since the incident. He changes the subject and follows Dr. Jia around the market, carrying her basket like an errand boy.

When they return to Hedi's house, he confronts her as soon as they're in the door. She has the good grace to look ashamed. "I'll take a lover if it bothers you," she says immediately. "I haven't lied to anyone – I've simply let them draw their own conclusions." She shrugs delicately, and he thinks he might have been interested in her, before. She's more handsome than pretty, older than him by a few years, but she's sweet and unassuming, and clearly not shy about sex. "I can perform that duty," he says, because penance can be the strangest thing sometimes. He thinks there might be something in it for him, too, something that might make his chest stop feeling so tight.

"I enjoy my own company, if you must know the truth." She squares her shoulders, daring him to say something. He smiles genuinely at her. Outside of the sexy greeting ceremonies, he's been the same the last year or so, not really interested in casual sex the way he used to be.

"No problem," he says, relieved and yet a little sad. "I totally understand. And I'll keep the secret if you will." 

She looks particularly conspiratorial when she leans in to kiss his cheek. "Thank you, [endearment]."

"What does that mean?" John asks, the sudden bright [squirt, heh] of curiosity surprising him.

She smiles. "[I have no idea what it means, I haven't even made it up yet. D:]"

He can feel the surprise on his face, and her laughter makes him smile, the first one in nearly two weeks, the muscles in his face feeling strange. 

"John?"

John whirls around, Teyla's voice tearing the brief moment of happiness from him with an almost physical force. 

"Teyla," he answers, mostly a whisper, her name escaping on a [surprised] exhale. "Ronon," he adds when he sees his other teammate behind her. He can feel himself closing up, lips pressed tight together and shoulders inward to protect his chest. He's not afraid of them, not really, but he doesn't want to think about who he's truly afraid of.

He goes cold at the very thought, crowding into Hedi as Ronon and Teyla approach.

"Sheppard," Ronon rumbles, and turns to nod at Hedi. 

"Hedi," Teyla says, rescuing her from John's looming by taking her forearms and touching their foreheads together.


End file.
